


hurts to feel, cut to numb

by ly_writes



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ADHD, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Projecting onto TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Cussing, Emotional Dysregulation, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Real Life, Self-Harm, The violence gets a little graphic, Tommy’s in here what did you expect, at least I don’t think so?, ha more like no beta we die like Wilbur on the sixteenth amirite, is a thing I have it’s very fun it makes me disproportionately mad a lot, man’s is going through it in this, no beta we die like men, not enough to warrant the warning though, only for a sentence and it’s not even true just wanted to be safe, or dream on the twentieth eyyyy fuck c!dream, that’s an actual tag dear god why do we love to project on him??, tommyinnit has adhd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29027370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ly_writes/pseuds/ly_writes
Summary: Tommy thought it was funny. He’d heard of people cutting to feel things again, but he’d never heard of anyone cutting because they felt too much. Hurting someone was a quick way to get rid of the anger boiling inside of him— what did it matter if that someone was himself?
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, nothing romantic here fuckers this ain’t the place for that
Comments: 47
Kudos: 564
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	1. Liken it to frost, which petrified my bones and holds me in place

**Author's Note:**

> First, I’ll give y’all the spiel I’m sure you’ve heard if you’re familiar with rpf: I’m not trying to represent anyone here— don’t push this, or anyone else’s work into the CCs! Have some common decency, please.
> 
> Also, the majority of the experiences described here are based upon what’s happened to me, so I can’t speak for anyone else’s experiences.
> 
> I am still painfully American, so though I’ve done my best to use British slang, I likely missed a few words, so feel free to point it out in the comments!
> 
> This is very different from the fluffy crack I posted a while back, so be careful when reading, please! Nevertheless, enjoy :))

Tommy is currently having the time of his life, streaming and bantering with Technoblade as he builds the best goddamn cobblestone tower anyone’s ever seen. He’s mindlessly chattering on, mind wandering from topic to topic with little rhyme or reason as it tends to do.

He’s just begun talking about essays when a little voice in the back of his head whispers, “You have an English essay due tomorrow and an algebra worksheet to finish.” His blood runs cold. 

Pausing, he figures that he can probably finish the essay by midnight, but the maths worksheet is going to take him much longer. Hiding his panic as best as he can, he rushes through his goodbye and ends the stream within twenty seconds.

“Fuck!” He yells into his hands, which he’s buried his face in.

Notifying his parents that he’s finished streaming, he pulls out his copy of Oedipus Rex. Contrary to popular belief, TommyInnit is not completely shit at school. In fact, he’s rather good at English and history, so the fairly simple essay prompt should be done within two hours if he really tries.

Algebra, however, is another story. Maths is his greatest weakness and they’ve just begun a new unit, so he’s got a hell of a struggle ahead of him. Tommy can already feel the lung-clenching panic beginning to crawl in like a vine spidering across a wall, but he pushes it down and steels himself to begin his English work.

By eleven-thirty, he’s turned the essay in. He supposes the assignment is less of an essay and more of a long-answer question, but he’s spit out a solid five hundred words and he should get a decent grade. The sinister sensation from before comes back with a raging vengeance as he turns towards his algebra assignment.

Picking up his calculator, he clicks into the PDF. His first problem requires him to graph an exponential growth or decay model, and he glances helplessly at the lump of plastic in his hand, eyes slipping in and out of focus. He lets his vision blur as he stares blankly at the wall behind his monitors.

What seems like hours but is really ten minutes later, Tommy manages to pull himself together and sluggishly look up how to graph things on a calculator. 

The YouTube videos give him a basic idea of what to do, but the model they’re using is completely different and has some extra buttons that he can’t seem to pinpoint on his own calculator. Giving up, he resorts to a dubious looking website that claims to graph growth and decay functions.

“In 2010, Jennie buys a car that costs £3,200. If the value of the car increases by 6% every year, how much will the car cost in 2018? How long will it take for the value of the car to reach £9,700?”

Tommy’s mind is blue-screening just reading the problem. How does he graph the problem if he can’t even understand what it’s asking? Thick and slimy tentacles of panic and frustration wrap around his ribs and crawl towards his throat; he can almost hear the creaking of his rib cage as anger jolts through his veins. Breath coming faster and faster, he sets down his calculator with shaky hands.

He can’t understand the problem he should understand the problem why is he so fucking stupid he can’t do anything right he can’t even do maths right what a failure—

A red-hot mix of rage and fear begins to burn in his stomach as he simultaneously beats himself up for not knowing what to do and stresses over the imminent due date of the assignment. Feeling the overwhelming urge to stab something or punch someone in the face to let out his emotions, Tommy wraps a trembling hand into a fist, slamming it into his thigh with all the power he can muster, stifling a cry— the only noise is a sharp inhale.

Some reasonable part of Tommy’s brain remains unaffected by the poisonous bolt of anger reasons that the reason he’s so angry is because his ADHD is magnifying his emotions, but its voice is too quiet in the din of violent wrath storming around his mind. The only audible noise in his brain is a thundering loop of incoherent rage and panic as he frantically scrubs his fingertips along the seams of his jeans with both hands in an attempt to calm himself down.

The scratching motion isn’t nearly enough, so Tommy grabs his right wrist and squeezes as hard as he can, resting his forehead on his desk as he attempts to vent his temper through his straining left hand. He lets go after a minute, and there are paper white imprints of his fingers ringing his left wrist, with three thin slivers of bright red skin in between, but his still-tumultuous mind doesn’t give two fucks about what could be a bruise come morning. Maybe he hopes there’ll be one.

Stumbling to his feet, Tommy impulsively grabs a pair of sharp-looking scissors off his bookshelf and dodges into the bathroom as quickly as possible, not wanting to risk his parents seeing him. He rubs soap and water over the scissor blades as quickly as he can; he may be overwhelmingly mentally disoriented at the moment, but he can see the dust and dirt on the scissors and he isn’t risking an infection. He’s angry and panicked, but he’s just trying to let out the emotions, not possibly get into the hospital.

Shucking off his pants as quickly as he can, he slumps against the bathroom wall, inhales shakily in an attempt to brace himself, and slashes the blade across his thigh in a single violent burst. The resulting spike of sharp pain is enough to have his eyes watering, with the burning inferno inside of him calling for violence quieting. For a second, he thinks the impulsively made cut is enough to clear his head, but at the mere thought of his tauntingly innocuous maths homework and his clear incompetence and failure, the wildfire is blazing with a returned fury.

The violent urges return as well and Tommy grits his teeth and brings the shining metal back down to skin, cutting into flesh and ripping across the pale expanse of skin. Blood is now beading at the surface of his skin, the viscous crimson liquid beginning to collect and drip down.

The feeling of hurting someone himself, the resistance of flesh against a blade, the give of it under the metal, is terrifyingly cathartic, and Tommy feels himself being the blade back to his leg for two more cuts in quick succession, his anger escaping through the motion of the blade and diffusing. Soon, his spiteful self-hatred and fury has drained away, and he’s left only with pain. The sting of the cuts take his breath away, and he hunches over, eyes watering as he tries to endure the agony.

The burning of his left thigh is both startlingly similar and completely different from the finally slowing storm of fury in his rib cage. Shakily, he sets the scissors down and grabs a wet wipe from the open pack on the counter. Dabbing at the cuts, he hisses, bearing through the near-constant flashes of pain coming from his thigh.

He tries to get to his feet, leaning heavily on his right leg. Above the sink, there’s a roll of gauze and a couple of plasters. Tommy goes for the gauze after realizing that even the largest plaster wouldn’t cover all the cuts, which, impulsively made, are going to be difficult to bandage properly. Thank god it’s winter and no one’s wearing shorts— he’d have so much explaining to do.

Carefully wrapping his thigh, he pulls his jeans back on. It’s tight confines are furiously fanning the burning flames of pain, but he pushes it away and carefully walks to his room, trying his best to avoid further agitating the cuts. He pushes his door open, gingerly sitting back down in his desk chair.

Staring blankly at his now dim computer screen and tauntingly blank notebook, he turns away. He can’t bring himself to try and figure out the tangled concepts they’re learning. Carefully changing into his sleep clothes, he collapses onto his bed. There’ll be hell to pay in his maths class tomorrow, but Tommy can’t be bothered about it.

With lingering panic thinly coating his bones like frost coating a window pane and the constant stinging of his leg, he falls into an uneasy sleep, brows furrowing unconsciously and curling in on himself as his mind falls dormant but his body remembers the pain.


	2. Frost to melt down my neck, chilling me down to my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why were they caring? They can’t care— that’s not how it works. Make them stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the attention on the last chapter! This one’s longer, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Tommy logs off his last Zoom class of the day, every part of him drained beyond belief. He’d been unable to focus in any of his classes, and when his goddamn maths teacher called on him to answer a question, he’d had to endure the humiliation of not knowing the answer. Even through a screen, he could feel the stares of every judgmental teenager in the meeting.

At least his parents are gone for the day. He doesn’t know if he would’ve been able to deal with their usual nagging and pestering; he knows his grades are shitty, but he might snap if he has to sit through another talk about how, “We do this because we’re concerned, Thomas.”

Rolling his desk chair over to his bed, he flops face-down onto his mattress. Scrabbling blindly in the sheets on his left where he knows his phone was, he fishes it out from between his pillows, turning his head to the side to check his Discord.

As he scrolls through the endless stream of servers and channels, his eyes catch on the bruises ringing his right hand. They’d been a bitch to hide, but his long hoodie sleeves had done an adequate enough job for his school day, at least. 

Absentmindedly tugging his sleeve down, he traces the stark outline of fingers and thumb. Sitting up, he settles his left hand back into the same spot, squeezing lightly. Pain instantly throbs up his wrist, but Tommy grits his teeth, tightening his grip even further. He lets go only when tears prick his eyes— he should care about the fact that those bruises aren’t going away anytime soon now, but the ache had been worth it.

He’s sitting against the wall on his bed, spacing out at the bookshelves opposite him, when his still-running monitor rings with an incoming call from Wilbur. Brightening up at the thought of talking to one of his best friends, he accepts the call, grinning. “Eyyyy!! What’s up, big man?”

As he greets the man, Tommy notices his hoodie sleeve riding up, showing the edge of his bruises. Hastily tugging it down, he flicks his gaze back up to his monitor. He can’t bother Wilbur about this; the man has better things to do than listen to a pathetic teenager whine about how he decided he’d rather cause himself pain than finish a measly maths worksheet. Plus, he’d get all worried about it, and Tommy’s fine! He doesn’t need help, there are other, more important people who do.

“...and so I told him to go fuck a cactus if he was that fucking bothered about it— Tommy? You there?” Wilbur’s voice echos from his headset.

Tommy’s vision snaps back into focus as he scrambles to process what he’d been hearing. “Yeah, I’m here. What’d you call for, by the way?”

“What? I can’t talk to my little brother, anymore?” Wilbur coos, looking much too amused.

Tommy stares at the camera, unimpressed. “That was so unfunny, bitch.”

“Damn, tough crowd,” Wilbur laughs. “Anyways, you were the one who told me you wanted to record something for your YouTube, weren’t you? Something about a proximity chat?”

Tommy curses internally. He’d been planning on recording with Phil, Quackity, and Wilbur, but with the whirlwind of stress and school, he’d completely forgotten. He fumbles for an excuse, a half-truth spilling from his lips. “School ‘n shit, my guy, you know how it is. Where are Phil and Big Q, then?”

“We agreed to start recording in an hour, since you weren’t replying. They’re busy at the moment, so they sent me to make sure you were ok.” Wilbur smiles, and fuck, Tommy shouldn’t be this comforted by his pseudo-brother showing the slightest bit of concern.

That quickly turns on him as his mind whispers,  _ They’ll be so disappointed when they find out you can’t handle yourself; you’re always bothering them, after all. _ Fuck. He can’t have Wilbur being worried about him— that’ll only lead to bad things. “‘M fine! Just got homework to do, so I’ll wait for you guys to call and we can start recording, eh?”

“That sounds good. See you then, Toms!” Wilbur hangs up, and his monitor goes back to the group chat text channel.

The grin drops from his face like his maths grade surely will when his teacher inevitably grades the worksheet and finds his missing. Closing out of the tab, he opens the damn PDF back up with shaky hands and nervous breath. He’s watched the lecture twice already, but his brain just refuses to understand the concepts as his hands uselessly copy down the example problems.

He can already feel panic sweeping through him, crawling up his spine, spiraling down his arms like electricity, and wrapping around his finger bones. Tommy finds himself flicking his hands and clenching his fists as he attempts to vent the emotions out. As his panic and anxiety grows, his breaths grow jagged, with inhaled that stab through his lungs and exhales that push their way out with a disproportionate amount of force. His legs kick against the floor, muscles seizing sporadically as he furiously shakes his head.

Irrationally frustrated, Tommy attempts to claw himself out of the gaping pit he’s being pulled into, but the voices crowd him back in.

_ You’re just a disappointment. _

_ Why don’t you know the answer? Oh, that’s right, you’re just a useless little baby that’s good for nothing. _

_ It’s a wonder they haven’t left you behind already. _

His head clouds, vision blurring and falling out of focus as he rocks on the floor. When did he get there? He doesn’t know, he just feels fear and dread bolting through his stomach as he balls his hands in his hair. As he sits, hunched over, he presses awkwardly on the cuts sitting on his thigh, and white-hot pain lances through him like a flaming javelin. Tears jump to his eyes, shocking him out of his worsening panic but leaving him still overwhelmed.

Everything suddenly feels too much. The cars outside are deafening, with engines that drill into his eardrums, and he squeezes his eyes shut, grinding his palms into them in an attempt to ground himself. Colors burst in the darkness, red, blue, and green spiraling through the darkness like fireworks. 

His hoodie, previously a warm and soft comfort, becomes constricting as the metal eyelets for the hoodie strings come into contact with his neck. The icy cold rings feels like an icicle dripping water down his chest, and he tugs desperately at the neck in an attempt to stop the disgust rising in the back of his throat. It slows, but doesn’t stop the sensation, and he rips the hoodie off, chucking it against the wall. It lands softly, and the gentle flump it makes only frustrates him further.

“I’m so tired I don’t want to do it I can’t fucking do it why can’t you do it you stupid useless bitch motherfucking cunt of an  _ idiot _ -“ His voice cracks on the last words as he chokes on a dry sob.

His breaths catch and scrape his throat, his vision growing black splotches and edges. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focuses on his breathing. He attempts to regulate it, but it seems to have a mind of its own while he’s just along for the ride. He eventually manages to bring it down to a semi-normal pace, and he’s so exhausted by the events of the past two days that he falls asleep almost immediately, awkwardly curled on the floor.

===

He doesn’t know how long he’s on the floor— only that when he wakes up, the sun has gone down by a significant amount. Identifying the blaring ringtone coming from his computer as what’s roused him, Tommy rubs his eyes, feeling gross. Realizing what that ringtone means and panicking, Tommy dives into his desk chair and slaps a hand across his keyboard in a hasty attempt to wake his PC up. 

Accepting the incoming call from the group chat they’d made in preparation for recording, and glancing at the time, he sees that he has two minutes until they’d planned to start recording. A fleeting thought turns his head to the right as he looks to the dark monitor present there, realizing that he looks like a fucking mess.

His hair is a tousled nest from where he’d been frantically grabbing and scrubbing at it, his face looks blotchy and red from the tears and panic, and he really just looks like shit, doesn’t he? It’s too late to do anything about it, he realizes, as the call connects.

Dead silence.

“Uh, hullo.... lads?” Tommy cringes away from the screen, where their cameras display a mix of shock and concern.

“Toms.... you look terrible,” Wilbur murmurs into his microphone.

He knows Wilbur means well, but that doesn’t stop the sinister voices in his head from snickering in triumph.  _ Of course, you look like shit— nobody’s ever wanted you a day in your life _ , one of them mocks, cackling into his ear.

His eyes itch, but he holds back the salt threatening to fall. “That- that ain’t very nice, eh, big man?” He tries and fails to sound light-hearted.

“Tommy, he means that you look... sick, almost. Are you okay, dude?” Quackity’s voice comes through his headset, uncharacteristically serious.

Tommy gives the fakest laugh of his life. He might’ve been better off letting out the sob blocking his throat for all that laugh convinced his friends. “All good, Big Q...”

His reassurances fall flat, and the call is filled with silence. “Are you sure?” Phil ventures.

For some reason, Phil’s words, filled with hesitance, concern, refusal to dismiss his word at face-value, willingness to listen— that’s what shoves Tommy past the point of no return.

A hot streak traces down his cheek as his vision bends strangely around the droplets hitting the desktop. “Hey, hey, mate, it’s alright, it’ll be ok,” Phil’s warm voice wraps around him, a cheap imitation of a real hug.

Tommy wraps his arms around his knees and tucks his head in between them to try and keep that comforting and home-like sensation around him as Wilbur and Phil silently gesticulate at each other. “Quackity, do you mind if Phil and I deal with this? I don’t know if this is the best time to record anything right now.” Wilbur’s worry bulldozes straight past what’s left of Tommy’s wet-cardboard defenses, grinding them into a pulpy mush.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I hope you feel better, Tommy.” One last reassurance from Quackity, and Discord’s distinct sound system announces his departure.

That’s the last thing Tommy hears as he dislodges his headset in a panic. He couldn’t even stop himself from inconveniencing others— what a pathetic excuse of a person. 

“-ommy! TOMMY!” A piercing voice broke through the angry red haze.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s fine, don’t worry, please,” Tommy blurted, tugging at his hair, feet erratically thumping against the floor.

“Toms, listen, it’s ok. You’re ok, it’s fine. Deep breaths, Tommy, deep breaths,” Wilbur’s voice comes from his headphones, which dangle around Tommy’s neck.

Rage swells inside of him. It’s absolutely illogical, some part of him recognizes that, but the rest of him is too indignant at the perceived condescension and fabricated tone of patronization and so he lifts his head, glare settling on his tear-stained face far too comfortably. “No, Wilbur! It’s not fine! I have so much work missing, I’m going to fucking flunk school, disappoint my parents, and fail in life because I’m too  _ goddamn stupid to know a thing _ !”

“Tommy-“ Phil tries to interrupt, but Tommy runs over the rest of his sentence with the force of a train hurtling down its tracks.

“It won’t be ok, because if my parents see one more goddamn missing assignment I’m going to be fucked over until I’m in the grave! It won’t be fine! I’m sick and tired of homework and I’d rather fucking kill myself than do more useless fucking shit!” Tommy shouts at the top of his lungs, shooting to his feet and breathing heavily.

As he takes in Phil and Wilbur’s horrified expressions, the anger drains, leaving him cold, shaky, and nauseated. The fury that had burned through his bones is gone, leaving him cold and clammy. He brings his arms up to hug himself, but then he realizes.

He’s cold because he chucked his hoodie earlier. The hoodie that hid his wrist. The wrist with the night-dark handprint of a bruise. The same bruise that is incriminatingly, painfully visible on camera.  _ Oh _ , he realizes distantly,  _ that’s what they’re looking at _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I lied it’s not better yet but pLEASE DON’T KILL ME WILBUR AND PHIL ARE HERE NOW COMFORT NEXT CHAPTER
> 
> *hides*


	3. the springtime comes, in its warmth, to lead the frost away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh. They do care. Maybe it’s ok to let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all have no idea how fucking hard it was to pull this chapter out of my brain— practically had to beat it with a fucking stick. I’m still not totally happy with it, but I’m not gonna make any more progress just staring at my Google Doc. I hope you enjoy this anyways!

Tommy flops into his chair, hunching over in dread and cold. “Uh, any chance we can act like we didn’t see that, lads?” He chuckles humorlessly, reluctantly pulling his headset back on.

“Who did that to you, Tommy?” Wilbur asks, face and voice carefully wiped of emotion.

“No..... one?”

“Was it... someone at school?” Phil ventures, acting as if Tommy was a wild animal that could dart off at any moment.

He wordlessly shakes his head. He could tell them, but that would just speed up the confrontation, and Tommy has no desire to bother adults about his problems.

“An adult?” Phil continues, looking more and more hesitant.

Another no.

“Please don’t tell me you did that,” Wilbur spoke up, eyes begging Tommy not to confirm his fears.

He simply looks away; the silence is enough of an answer for everyone in the call.

“Oh, Tommy— I’m so sorry,” Wilbur murmurs, looking for all in the world like he’s about to burst into tears.

“Better me than somebody else though, right?” Tommy mumbles, reaching for the hoodie on the floor.  _ I really don’t want to talk about this _ , he bemoans internally as he tugs it on.

“Mate, what? What do you mean somebody else?” A chicken could’ve been the one talking to Phil, he looks so confused.

Tommy hesitates to answer. They’d be disgusted when they realized he regularly fantasized of beating people up in his fits of frustrated rage. Just the thought of it causes an image to float into his brain; standing over a motionless body, hands coated in blood. Nauseated, he shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought— he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Once they knew, he’d truly be alone. Who was he kidding, though. They don’t, can’t, care about him. Maybe once they realize how terrible he is, they’ll leave and Tommy can stop worrying about bothering everyone.

“Well, y’know how I was talking about my homework?”

A nod from both men.

“Yesterday night, I was trying to do my fucking math, but I just  _ couldn’t _ and so I, uh, I got really pissed— mostly at myself, but I felt like if I could hurt someone, I’d be a little less angry. It just so happened that someone was, well, me,” Tommy sighs, cringing and slumping in his seat as his posture somehow worsens further.

“Tommy, I know it seems like an easy way to fix things, but hurting yourself is never the only answer,” Wilbur says, voice soft and sympathetic.

Tommy blinks. They were concerned about him? Did they not hear him just say that he’d been close to punching somebody in the face?

“Well, what am I supposed to do, huh? Fuck somebody else up?” Tommy snarks, feeling a bit of the fire come back.

“There are other ways to get your energy and frustration out; you can try taking boxing or something at a gym?” Phil suggests, reasonable as ever.

“That’s true, I guess, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still have a stupid fucking maths worksheet to finish,” Tommy’s lip curls at the thought of the accursed assignment, ready to just shred his notebook if only to get it over with.

“We both graduated college— I’m sure we can help you out,” Wilbur offers.

“You would do that?” Tommy glances up through his eyelashes, not wanting to let them go to such lengths for him.

“Tommy, I think I speak for the both of us when I say I would do anything short of murder for you,” Wilbur replies, looking dead serious.

“Really?” His voice cracks. 

“Abso-fucking-lately,” Phil confirms.

The conviction in their voices is absolute, and Tommy’s hit with a such a strong wave of warmth and love that for a second, he almost believes that they’re there with him. Then, it washes away, leaving him somewhat more secure in his friendships and a little less cold.

He sniffles, wiping his tears with his hoodie sleeves. “Shit, that’s kinda fuckin’ gross,” He croaks, looking down at his damp cuffs.

Wilbur laughs softly, then turns somber again. “Tommy, no matter what we say on stream, we don’t, and never have, found you annoying. You’re one of the best brothers I could ever ask for, and I’m so happy to be able to say that I’m your friend. Anybody, or anything, that tells you otherwise, is a fucking liar. You are worth everything.”

Phil nods. “We’ll always be here for you— you can talk to us no matter what, and we’ll help you best we can.”

“That means a lot,” Tommy mumbles, uncontrollably sniveling into his hoodie. “Pretend you guys can’t see my snotting up my shirt, thanks.”

“No worries, mate. Now, before we finish that bitch of a maths worksheet, why don’t we play a little Minecraft?” Phil smiles.

Tommy breaks out into a grin at the thought of getting to play without any sort of recording or streaming going on. Just the three of them in a survival world, doing what they lived most without a care.

As he loads up the game, he absentmindedly runs his fingers over the cuts on his leg. Before, he’d taken a sick sort of pride in the pain; it’d been satisfying in a brutal sort of way to see the blood and feel the agony. Now, he just felt kind of gross and achy. 

Fuck— maybe Wilbur was right. Perhaps picking up a combative sport would be more effective toward expending his energy. He’d be fucking people up, and it’d be allowed! The more he thought about it, the better it sounded.

“Guys, I really appreciate you, y’know that?” Tommy says into the quiet.

“Yeah. We appreciate you too, Tommy. You deserve the world.” Wilbur replies, looking into the camera with open and honest eyes.

“Fuck, big man. Stop springin’ this shit on my with no warning— it’s not nice to make people cry, y’know?” Tommy sniffs. God, he really just could not stop crying today.

“If you ever feel like that again, I want you to come to us, ok?” Phil emphasizes.

“Yeah. You’re sure I won’t be bothering you?” Tommy fidgets, lingering insecurities tickling his brain.

“Yeah— we’ll be here, no matter what,” Wilbur says.

The three of them fuck around for a while, with a loose goal of beating the Ender Dragon in mind as they watch Wilbur repeatedly fall into holes while running backwards. Soon, the fog of negativity has lifted from Tommy’s exhausted body, replaced by a contented feeling of belonging.

Maybe the world wasn’t completely shit, after all. His thoughts were interrupted by Wilbur: “Feeling better, Toms?”

“Yeah, thank you guys. Except Endermen exist! Fuck Endermen, and their stupid teleportation skills and their stupid aggro trigger and my stupid goddamn shield-“

“Woah! Mate, it’s not that bad!” Phil laughed.

“Yes, it is Phil! All I did was look, like, one of them in the eye, and next thing I know, the whole fucking colony is crowding my ass!” Tommy near-whined, pulling a laugh out of the two people in the call.

It was a nice sound. He’d been so stressed and preoccupied with schoolwork that he’d almost allowed himself to forgot how relaxing it was to simply be with people he liked. He grinned— he hadn’t needed the Ender Dragon kill, anyways: their laughter was enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the support on this fic! If you liked the darker and introspective tone in this or the fluffy crack I’ve written before, stick around for more! *those are the only two things I seem to know how to write lmao* I cannot see the end to my MCYT obsession and I might as well make use of the characters I’ve come to love, eh?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Haha please don’t hurt me I promise it gets better


End file.
